“No rubbishing!” Sarah-Kelly snapped.
Lawrence noted the light of a true believer in her eyes—she had become a genuine radical fanatic, exactly the sort he had learned about in his Securitician A training. This was not the same person he had known in Oban—but he was not the same person either.
“What did you call me here for?” he asked.
“You’re a free man,” Donald said. “Krossington recognised an injustice had been done and corrected the situation. You have been reinstated at your old rank with full privileges and all obligations to the Night and Fog cancelled. Welcome back to the world.”
Lawrence stuttered in spasms of relief, sobbing twice before he regained control of himself, breathing more smoothly, his eyes flooded by a sense of blessing. He had forgotten that Life could strike with fortune as well as doom.
“God bless His Decency!”
“You can sign up with the National Army if you wish, or you can go back to sea with your Master’s Certificate, or drive a lorry with your driving licence.”
“How do you know about all those things?”
“I checked your service file to make sure the court martial had been revoked—we’ve captured all the headquarters buildings of the three glory trusts along with the personnel archives within.”
“Those archives make interesting reading,” Sarah-Kelly said.
“Are you certain the ultras will stay off my back?”
Neither of them replied for several seconds. Then Donald said:
“Bartram told us by letter you escaped from the Value System of Nightminster—so don’t expect a warm welcome from him. I don’t know about other ultramarines. I suppose it depends on whether they think you’re at large in London, which in turn depends on where the Value System is.”
Lawrence took a little time to step back from this conversation he was having with the woman he had once intended to marry and a brother he had not seen in ten years. It was a pretty cool affair, not much more engaged than if they were functionaries.
“Tell me about your life, Donald. I see you’re married. Have you any children?”
“This isn’t the time, Lawrence,” Sarah-Kelly said.
Lawrence held his temper, although he could feel his face starting to pulse.
“Neither of you have the faintest fucking idea of the special hell from which I have extracted myself. Under the circumstances, I find your attitude just a little bit sullen. You must be aware I couldn’t have answered letters about Father’s death. I was in a slave labour camp of a quite abominable nature.”
He paused. How much could he say? If he started claiming Nightminster ran a factory that slaughtered, skinned and butchered thousands of human beings every year and sold the production as, amongst other things, the boots Lawrence was wearing at this moment… He could imagine what Sarah-Kelly’s reaction would be. The secrets of the Value System were shut up inside him unless he could produce corroboration—and a hell of a lot of corroboration at that. Ranks and ranks of it. Feeling lamed, he finished:
“Bearing in mind your cute new allegiance to the National Party, brother, I think you might be interested in my secrets. They would blow the whole sovereign system sky-high.”
The bait drew no interest.
“I’m aware you could not have known about Father’s last illness,” Donald said.
“What did he die of?”
“A form of brain cancer called glioblastoma. The illness was quite short.”
“We have so much to catch up on, old brother, the vital years of our lives! I can see you’re busy… Why don’t we go out tonight in the Central Enclave? We’re family again.” He put all his enthusiasm into the invitation, in the face of their officious remoteness.
“Lawrence.” Sarah-Kelly said, leaning forward. “I’ve been working with the Atrocity Commission. Do you know what that is?”
“You mentioned that in your letter. It’s an investigation of crimes by glory officers.”
“My job is to manage the office that collects and collates all the statements coming in from the field teams. It’s far too senior for me. The core of the old Party got murdered at Bloomsbury College, that means folk have had to step into boots that are far too big for them. Fortunately, I’ve got Donald to help me.” She slid an arm across Donald’s back and gave him a squeeze.
“That’s nice,” Lawrence said. Mention of the Commission had rammed a stab of fear up through his diaphragm. He lowered his hands from the table as they had begun trembling.
“We need to ask you some questions,” Donald said.
“Why? Because I reached cost-centre lieutenant?” His voice had softened. He wanted to clear his throat, but dare not so coughed instead.
“There were officers who achieved senior rank without committing atrocities,” Donald said.
“But loads did murder folk,” she said.
“Oh I understand. This is a trial. Sort of. Donald promoted to judge like Father. Well, ask away then.” After the initial shock, he was gathering back his confidence, even growing angry at their assumptions.
“Have you read any of the Party’s bulletins?” Donald asked.
“No.”
“Allow me to assist you in catching up. Could you take a look at this one, please?”
He passed across a bulletin. The paper and ink were of excellent quality, more in line with an invitation to a May Ball than a pamphlet. Lawrence turned it over various ways, looking for anything of relevance. It seemed to be just speeches by the big shots.
“The interesting bit is on the reverse side,” Donald said.
The other side was a grid of twenty ID photos of glory officers. It was an arrest list. These were officers wanted by the Atrocity Commission to stand trial. He scanned the names and faces without concern. Had he been listed for arrest he would have been arrested, not invited for a chat. When he saw a name he recognised, he was so startled he twitched with shock.
“Dick Haighman? I served with him in Oban.”
“What!” Sarah-Kelly folded over the full width of the desk “Did you say you served with one of them?” She was so close her hair brushed his cheek and he could smell her perfume of cinnamon and lemons. He underscored
